Oh, Curt
by za
Summary: A brief reflection on what his lover means to Brian. Not for the faint of heart.


Title: Oh, Curt.

Author: mao 

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most notably not me. I'm just a poor college student not trying to make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles. 

Author's Notes: This isn't as good as the last one. Sorry. It's my attempt to get into Brian's head mid-film. I'm sorry to say it's not so great. Just the same, tell me what you think?

Warnings: Semi-graphic sex, language.

***

It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

I wasn't supposed to fall in love with him. 

Want him, yes. Shag him, certainly. But I was supposed to remain detatched, cool, a stone idol on a glittering pedastel. It was just going to be a publicity stunt from the outset - drum up some interest in his career by associating him with me. We'd kiss in public, become an item of a sort. Mandy's actually the one who thought it up. 

It was the evening I first met him in person. We were getting ready for bed - she'd removed her makeup and was looking plain and tired. She sat at the dressing table, burshing her hair and laughing about how his cigarette had fallen out of his mouth, how he'd been unable to carry on a conversation, how he'd fallen asleep in the middle of the crowded club. She was laughing, cheerful, and I wanted to strangle her. 

Like she was so much better than him. 

As if I'd never seen her so drunk or so high she couldn't stay awake, or couldn't move. I remember one night when she did so much coke and so much speed she couldn't hold still long enough to light a cigarette. I'd tried lighting it for her, but she was laughing so hard at that point that not only couldn't she hold still long enough to hit the end of the fag with the flame, she also couldn't inhale. In the end, I lit it for her, then went to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, she'd rearranged all the furniture in the rest of our flat and was outside gardening - something I'd never seen her do before, and haven't since. 

"Shut up," I told her when she started laughing at the way his eyeliner had spread down his cheeks, thick on sweat. "Unless you have anything useful to say, just shut your bloody trap." I meant it, and I think she understood, because she did shut up. Until, a few minutes later, she began again, hesitantly - 

"You want to help him, right?" Her accent slipped back into place. Being in America was really confusing her, and her accent was all over the place. "If he signs a deal, you should help him. Be his -" she paused, clearly thinking for the right word. "Mentor." But there was something about the way she said it that implied something more. 

And so here we are. 

He's slamming into me, grunting, trying hard to be gay. I can't help the fact that he's not made love to many men before. All I have to do is get through this, I keep telling myself. I've been telling myself that since the first time. And then he'll do something wonderful - he'll take his hand around my waist, run it over my cock, caress me, murmer in my ear - he'll do something with so much potential to it that I'll melt, he'll slam, and we'll come together in a single breathless orgasm. 

And I hate it when he does that. When he does something so touchingly gentle that it makes me want to cry. When we're done, and we're lying together, my back to him and his arms around my waist, his soft snoring in my ear, it makes me angry. 

_I wasn't supposed to love him._

Besides, can you love someone and hate them at the same time? 

_Because I do hate him. _

I wish he'd hurt me, sometimes. I wish he'd pull my hair, or scratch me. Slap me, punch me. See through my charade. I want him to look at me, and know I'm using him. Know I'm waiting for his brilliant mind to come up with something for me to use. Know that once he has, I'll be done with him. It'll be over.

But he doesn't know. Doesn't even suspect. And I hate him for that. He's so fucking naive, and he doesn't even know it. Pretends he isn't. Thinks that shooting up and drinking and servicing his big brother and electrocution and all that make him worldly. Make him understand.

Truth is, he doesn't know shit. It's like Mandy - she still hasn't figured it out that I used her to get my foot in the door. That we haven't actually had sex in so long that I've - thank God - forgotten what she smells like, what her skin feels like. I never loved her either, but marriage was what she wanted. And I've got to give people what they want.

Oh God, now he's fondling me. His hands - he does have magic hands. _Oh..._

I hate him though. He's not who he was supposed to be. I wanted to see him, wanted to see if he could live up to my fantasy. When I slept with him and he didn't match up to the dreams I had of his dick in me, I let it go. When he fell asleep that first night we met, I let it go. But he's not who he proclaims to be. I hate hypocrisy. 

Oh, oh, _oh God_, oh, yes, please, oh, _harder_. 

Once he gets the right spot, he knows what to do, though. It's amazing. And I know he's on the verge of thinking up something new, original, and wonderful for me. Something no one in music has done yet. Jack may have started glam, and Curt may have exposed it, but I'll do the next wonderful thing to it. In the next couple weeks, he'll have it, and I won't have to suffer this any longer.

It hurts, but it hurts so damn good. _Oh -_

"How's that, love?" His lips are against my earlobe, soft, brushing me - _teasing_ - 

Speeding up. Riding me like a jockey. 

Oh, that's nice.

How I hate him. Just because he thought it up first. Maybe that's wrong, maybe it's - oh..._yes_, right there. _Harder, faster._

I love you Curt. Make me come. Make me touch the stars. Show me what you see.

Yes, yes, _yes_.

Tell me what God said to you, you useless, shagging bastard.

Oh, Curt, _oh yes._ Yes. Yes -

I hate you.

_Yes -_

I love you.

_Oh, Curt -_


End file.
